The Humble Bees
by v2point0
Summary: Mycroft leads a double life. One as a government official, another as a homoerotic novelist. The main leads of his most popular series, The Humble Bees, bear striking resemblance to a certain two real men. Meanwhile, John is subjected to the worst.


I'm nervous about posting my Sherlock fics in more public places, mainly because I think they're rather amateur. But this one seems to be well received, so... Well, here it is.

So, some days ago, my friend Lundi brought up Mark Gatiss's homoerotic novel, discussing how it was full of tons and tons of gay smut. We then had an idea that Mycroft, who Gatiss plays in the BBC series, would publish homoerotic novels under a penname. And they would be no ordinary homoerotic novels - no, they'd be near carbon copies of Sherlock and John, aka James and Sherence. Another idea that spawned was Mycroft would annoy the two, especially John, about his novels, ideas, and other personal issues related to his novels.

I originally didn't plan on writing anything, but then Lundi and Sulu pushed me to the dark side and I wrote up a series of little ficlets of Mycroft tormenting John with his novels.

And so, here they are!

**Title**: The Humble Bees  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Warnings**: profanity, discussion of sex; no actual pairings, though you can decide for yourself if the real Sherlock and John are dating.  
**Summary**: Look above.  
**A/N**: Dedicated and written for Midy, Sulu, Sum and Jazz, all of whom were sources of his inspiration or awesom**e**. I hope you enjoy them and for the former two, the two new ones! The title, _The Humble Bees_, is the name of Mycroft's series; I was going to mention it in one fic, but decided meh.  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

**I**

"Have you read my new story?" Mycroft asked intensely. "It is Goddamn glorious."

John sighed. "Mycroft, I really wish you would consult Anthea about your novels," he grumbled, "maybe she can convince you, where as I obviously cannot, that name and hair/eye color changing still does not mean you're not ripping real people off."

"Do you speak of copyright?"

"Well, may - I mean. I don't think humans are copyright material in... Well..." John puzzled, eyebrows furrowing.

"Don't speak to me about copyright, John," Mycroft replied. "I am above copyright."

John glared. "Well, no matter what you are above, this is still wrong." He slapped the back of his hand to the book. "I have been lax about you portraying me in your erotic novels because I don't want to upset my best mate's brother, nor possibly awake to find myself in a bathtub of ice with five essential organs removed. But I must insist this stop _now_."

"Why now?" Mycroft demanded.

"Well, for one," John scowled, "I don't even like jam as much as you seem to have my counterpart obsess over. And I especially don't like it when it's up my _bum_."

"It's kinky."

"No, it's sticky. And I prefer my jam on toast, and toast alone."

Mycroft went quiet, stroked his chin.

John paled. "Oh, God, you're brainstorming, aren't you?"

"I never considered adding food play into - "

"Bloody Hell! I will sue you for this!"

Mycroft grinned like the Cheshire Cat, or the Grinch when he had a horrible, no good, awful idea. "Dear John, you know how that will turn out," he purred. "Besides, isn't imitation the most sincerest form of flattery?"

"Get out, you have ruined my toast."

**II**

"All right, John." Mycroft took a seat at the table, his expression mastered in seriousness. John sat adjacent of him, sifting through the new manuscript. "I considered your 'constructive criticism' last time and decided to change things around a bit."

"It wasn't 'constructive criticism', Mycroft, it was an order for you to stop," John insisted.

Mycroft tutted. "Well, it was such a weak attempt, I could tell no difference!"

John really wished he could slap Mycroft. But then he'd probably wake to find a horse's head at the foot of his bed. He sighed and placed the manuscript down, then bridged his hands, hid half his face behind them as he stared, brows knitting, eyes heavy with various emotions, at the table. It lasted a good long minute until Mycroft told him to hurry up by checking his pocket watch.

"Mycroft, I don't..." John took a deep breath. "I don't think you understand. Besides changing a few things, you've kept our personalities relatively intact. Except you've made me a bit dim."

"Everyone is dim to me," Mycroft reassured. Or something.

John shook his head. "That's not the point. I don't think anyone has suspected the... inspiration behind your characters, but it worries me should someone like Moriarty expose the truth," he explained, hands open. "I really would rather not the general public attack me, asking if I really am that idiotic and if I like," he rubbed his forehead momentarily, "if I like Sherlock playing doughnut toss on my erection."

Mycroft giggled. "Admittedly, I saw that on the Internet."

"I mean no offense when I say this," John continued, "but you are a very depraved, lonely and horny man."

"I am not," Mycroft snorted. "I've got seven wives, you know."

John's eyes bulged from his skull. "S-Seven...?"

"One per continent."

"I didn't know you were into polygamy..." John's voice was hushed in awe.

Mycroft smirked. "Hardly anyone knows a thing about me." He paused. "I love elk. I have five females and one bull I keep in my backyard. They are named after a few of Santa's reindeer - "

John closed his eyes tightly 'til he saw stars. "Mycroft, please. Why don't you act out some of your fantasies with your wife back home, yeah?" he suggested, almost pleaded.

"Oh, she's a very busy woman," Mycroft sighed, "married to her work, too. S'not easy being the Queen and all."

"Oh wot."

**III**

John was used to Sherlock's insane, random antics that more often than not put him in bodily harm. He was used to being woken up at 2 AM by the consulting detective when he needed to borrow a sock to grow mold on it, or rant about that stupid lollipop "how many licks?" commercial and how it was relative per person, _but_ if you'd like a breakdown -

However, John did not expect this.

The blanket had been ripped right off him, and John groaned, starting to curl up from the sudden brush of cold when colder, leather clad fingers tightened like steel around his arms. John gasped, struggled mindlessly as he was dragged by two large, masked men out of his room. He wasn't weak, could put up a fight, but these men were practically professional wrestlers.

"Sherlock!" John shrieked as he was dragged through the living room, kicking over objects, and writhing.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, just ten feet away. "Busy!" he shouted, towering over his microscope.

"Sherlock, I'm being kidnapped!"

"Yes, very good, we'll see to buying some tomorrow!"

John gaped, torn between shock, horror and admiration; really, a man so bright as Sherlock, just completely oblivious despite... John was forced out of the building, Mrs. Hudson sound asleep in a medicated dream. He was then hurled roughly into a black, ominous car; just as he attempted to get out the other door, a third man leaped from the seat across him and forced him down, arms to his sides. John meant to curse a string of terrible obscenities before a bag was pulled over his head and his arms cuffed behind his back.

He didn't know how long they had been driving, but his throat had grown hoarse from all the snarling and spitting and cursing. His arms, muscles were weak from the thrashing, especially his shoulder and leg. It might have seemed like forever, but it was only ten minutes before hands were roughly pulling him from the car and forcing him along slick, wet cement.

"Where am I!" John demanded, head jerking about under the bag. "Who are you! Bloody cowards, show me your faces!"

John hissed in pain as he was shoved forward then forced to a sit in... a very comfortable chair. He heard a voice and then the shuffle of feet, two pairs, before the closing of a door. Over his panting, there was the soft crackle of fire, and it felt rather warm in this room. A moment later, he twisted when hands quickly removed the cuffs then bag. He prepared to launch a fist, probably at Moriarty, half-out of it with fury and exhaustion, before he saw Anthea standing there, glaring without an ounce of fear in her.

"Tea?" she asked blandly.

John blinked. "W-Wot..."

"Tea then," Anthea said and left the study room, thumb of one hand pounding the keys of her cellphone.

"Hello, John."

John whipped his head back, grasping the armrests of the recliner. Mycroft sat across him, smoking a pipe, smiling like the devil. "Sorry to bring you here under such... precautions."

"Mycroft, you kidnapped me, right from my own bed, threw me into a car, manhandled me like a rag doll, cuffed and bagged, there's probably fingerprint bruises everywhere along my arms, and you're just going to say you're _sorry_?" John sputtered, and it took all of his power and sleepiness not to get up and wail on the bastard. Horse's head, though, must remember that.

"I needed some help writing James's reaction to Sherence's confession," Mycroft replied, not listening to a word of the rant. "Would you be appalled, touched, speechless or find it sarcasm if Sherlock professed his love to you?"

John gaped, quiet for a moment. "Mycroft! It's bloody three in the morning!" he snarled. "Couldn't this - couldn't you wait until later! When I was awake and willing to maybe even consider that mad question!"

"I texted you."

"What?"

"I texted you at least twice," Mycroft replied, "but you didn't answer. And I really could not sleep not knowing how to write you- James's reaction." He looked so sweet and friendly. "I hope it's really not as much of a big deal as you've made it out to be."

"Not a big deal - !"

"If you want, I can offer you something for your time and troubles," Mycroft said. "Would you like some money? Maybe some rare wine imported directly from Russia? Maybe an acre of land in Africa?"

John wanted to rip his hair out. "Dear Jesus, I hate you."

"People typically hate their inlaws."

"Wot?"

"But I like you very much." Mycroft beamed.

"Go to Hell."

**IV**

He licked his lips. "Sherence, I - " He hesitated to continue. "I... don't know how I feel about this..."

How would you feel about this, John?  
- MH

About what? Is this from your new novel? I'm not interested.  
- JW

Well, if you need context: Sherence is going down on James for the first time. How does that make you feel?  
- MH

Nothing. It makes me feel absolutely nothing.  
- JW

Surely it invokes something.  
- MH

Other than rage? No, not really.  
- JW

Mm, rage. Not good. Definitely not. That's a silly reaction to someone willing to give you head.  
- MH

... did you hear anything i said  
- JW

Did you mean 'read'? Also, your grammar has gone downhill.  
- MH

I can't deal with this. I'm at a crime scene, for God sakes.  
- JW

Sherlock doesn't need you right now, obviously, if you can text so fast.  
- MH

(...)

John, you still there?  
- MH

Busy.  
- JW

I am too, or I would like to be, if only you'd give me a reaction.  
- MH

Fwrd: Busy.  
- JW

How droll. You could at least say, 'I would probably be nervous at first, insecure by my figure, as I am not exactly a young thing anymore; but I can tell there is love and consideration in Sherence's offer and hands, and feel he will not let me down nor look at me as anything less'. Would that be so hard?  
- MH

(...)

John, texting your new number. Really now, did you think it'd be that easy?  
- MH

(...)

John, you ought not to waste your money on a second phone. I have that number, too.  
- MH

**V**

It had been a very troublesome day for one Doctor John Watson. His alarm was set for 7, but he woke at 5 to the equally pleasant alarm of chemical explosions. No shower, because Sherlock currently had a headless torso floating in some formaldehyde in the tub. Mrs. Hudson offered her bathroom, but she was also a bit high. Cold oatmeal for breakfast because the microwave was in ten pieces on the floor and the stove had stopped working five days ago. He honestly hoped Sarah wouldn't notice he was wearing yesterday's clothes, since Sherlock had decided he'd do his laundry throughout the night, the very night John needed to do his.

Afternoon was a total blast. One man with a flu came in, sneezed all over him, then accused the doctor of not having treated him with medication to prevent the sickness last week. Except he was feverish and forgotten he had seen John Smith, not John Watson that week. A child came in a bit later; rough little brat, only rougher when he was to be given his booster shot. John's ears were ringing an hour after the entire fiasco of pinning the child down, the mother fussing uselessly and the father half between helping and telling the doctor he was being 'too rough'. The old lady was nice; too bad she kept forgetting every other word John said, forcing him to repeat his lecture on taking better care of her bowels.

Sarah brought him lunch. It perked him up a bit; he should have known better than to check his messages while eating, when one from a rather dim patient popped up describing the new symptoms of his thigh cyst and what should he do until he can make an appointment? John decided he wasn't hungry anymore.

Nothing really happened after that; the patients trickled to a slow stop, but it made everything Goddamn boring. The nurses were chatting in the break room about their sex lives, and he passed the open door, only to stop a few feet away and overhear their new topic of sexual discussion: if John was really shacking it up with Sarah or going down on his crazy flatmate with the fabulous hair and delicious cheekbones. John was tempted to head back and tell them gossiping only made girls undesirable.

It was pissing cats and dogs when he headed home; while he managed to stay relatively dry, the cuffs of his pants were soaked and drenching the top of his socks. Surprisingly, no one had personally agitated him on the bus, but it was loud as usual. Women being noisy and squealing, people listening loudly to their iPods, old men muttering, newspapers flapping as one showed John doctors may be facing a financial cutback in the near future.

So when he got home, John was really not in the mood to deal with anyone or anything. All he wanted to do was strip and fall into bed and not wake up until spring rolled around. At least Sherlock wasn't in the house; he had texted John once, but did not tell him his whereabouts. Just said the heater had been wonky and he should probably fix it before he got home. John wrote up a text in reply, "When did I become your bloody repairman? Call maintenance, or better yet, pay the bill," but he decided to abort it instead of sending.

John had managed to undress then fall in his bed, lay there on his naked belly for a good ten minutes, breathing heat into his pillow. It was only then did his phone ring, and God only knew why he bothered picking it up. Especially not bothering to check caller ID.

"Hullo," he grumbled.

"John!"

Fucking. _Mycroft_.

John went to tell him he was busy not giving a fuck when Mycroft exclaimed: "Good news! The new book was a hit! The fans are demanding more! They are especially interested in seeing James come out of his shell and explore his sexual fantasies."

"Delightful," John groaned. Hanging up now while Mycroft was in a good mood would mean his bank accounts suddenly being drained of all money.

"So I need to ask you," Mycroft continued, "what sort of sexual fantasies are you into?"

John dug his nails into his pillow. He was going to rip it open and eat the stuffing then puke it up in Sherlock's bed. He was going to tear the ugly wallpaper from the walls then roll up roadkill with them and mail them to Mycroft. He was going to call Moriarty and ask him if he needed another henchman. He was going to fucking rob a bank then shoot the asshole who called him describing the color of his cyst's pus in the leg and tell him NOW he ought to follow the doctor's orders, hmm?

No, but he could do none of those. But the rage was there, and it was immense, and he could not just swallow it. It would only turn his stomach into Hell and burn with the fury of a thousand hippies protesting at a chemical plant near some bloody forest. No, no, he wasn't going to let this rage go.

"John? Are you quite all right?"

And he knew exactly where to shove it.

"Oh, right, so you want my sexual fantasies, then?" John quirked.

"I believe I asked that, yes."

Smug son of a - "Well, first off, I'm rather fond of rough sex," John explained, "like BDSM. I like tying my partners up until their circulation is cut off. Then I mount them on a cross, or a ceiling if you don't have a cross, and use a sharp poker to poke and carve lines along their tender naked flesh like the Romans did Jesus. Of course not impale, because that's sadly too messy and uncomfortable for some. Tragic for me, though, but whatever works best. After I'm done prodding them like meat and they're about to pass out from lack of oxygen, I take them down and proceed to fuck them. No lube, no prepping, just raw until my dick feels like grated cheese and they can't sit for at least a month. AT LEAST, I must make sure, or else it doesn't get me off.

"I move onto then jamming as many dildos in their bleeding arse as possible. Then I apply two cock rings, just to make sure. I deny them of orgasm for an hour, maybe two, if I'm feeling generous. When they do come, I make sure to bottle it, mix it with some Weetabix cereal and milk and make them eat it while I masturbate right next to their ear. They must eat that, too. After they're done, they throw it up, because I'm not going to kiss them with their mouths so foul."

John took a deep breath. "That's the foreplay, though. The actual real sex bit includes a hamster, two wakizashi, and preferably a bag of salt, but sugar will do. It tends to go down easier with the absinthe." He smiled, though Mycroft could not see it. "Does that help any?"

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "Quite," he replied simply. "Thank you, John."

"Anytime, mate," John purred, hung up, had himself a cackle and then a coughing fit.

Two weeks later, John was skimming through Mycroft's new novel. Just to see if Mycroft actually wrote what he said, or dropped it all together. He found it finally, half way:

_If anything, John's sexual appetite was meek and docile. He had trouble with previous partners due to his frail libido. They were unsatisfied, they told him; he could not provide them with the proper lovemaking they desired. It was not to say he was inexperienced, just rather clumsy. The size of his penis, as has been discussed many times through this series, was of an average size, if not a little smaller than norm. He had very little ambition when it came to the art of creativity in bed, and required a guiding hand to the more rougher side of the sheets. Needless to say, John was simple, if not a bit boring, and needed to follow rather than lead._

John stomped downstairs. Sherlock was bored - again, shooting the wall - again. John marched over to him, took the gun after another fire; Sherlock blinked then frowned, waiting for some lecture. It didn't happen; rather, John threw Mycroft's book down and pumped it full of led until the magazine was empty.

**VI**

John tossed the chips into the half-full grocery cart then trudged his way down the rest of the aisle. As he was about to pass the the sweets, suddenly a figure emerged before him; the tip of an unopened umbrella pushed against the front of the cart, forcing it to an abrupt halt. John looked up and blinked, finding Mycroft standing there, smiling in a feline fashion.

"Evening, John."

John stared. "What are you doing here? You - you do your own shopping?" Impossible.

"I needed to have a quick word with you. It is urgent and of the utmost private."

"Well, we can't do it here, then," John replied.

Mycroft purred. "Oh, I think we can." He patted his breast pocket, which chirped once, and then suddenly:

"All shoppers," a voice announced over the intercom, "please discontinue your business, as the store is closing for repairs. We apologize for the inconvenience. We repeat: all shoppers must leave the premises for immediate repairs."

There was a serious of groans, snarls, threats, and whines flooding the aisles around John as he gawped at the snickering man. Minutes later, the place was emptied out, leaving the two alone with only the sound of elevator-esque music humming above their heads.

"How did you..." John trailed off, awed.

"I own the market place," Mycroft answered. He reached over, opened a Double Decker chocolate bar and took a big bite. "The entire chain, in fact."

John just had to laugh. "Suppose you own Cadbury too, do you?"

"No, but I've got stocks in them," he answered, taking another bite. "That is not important, however. I have come to you because I need help in writing out this scenario between Sherence and James, where they are exploring their g-spots - "

"No," John said bluntly, meant to turn his cart and go around him. Mycroft just sidestepped, kept the cart at bay with his umbrella. "Really, this is getting out of hand, don't you think?" he sighed, and the fight was nearly drained out of him. Why didn't he just surrender?

"It should not take long," Mycroft insisted. He finished off the bar, wiped off a smudge of chocolate from the corner of his lip. "I simply need to know the locations of your g-spots, and how I can reconstruct them to fit - "

"Such appalling talk and behavior coming from an upright man of power such as yourself."

The two snapped their gazes back, to the eerie sound of footfalls 'claking' against the tile. A moment later, a figure appeared at the other end of the aisle; he turned, a man dressed in a luxurious black coat, hands tucked in his pockets, hair a shaggy mess. Sherlock smiled; he lifted an apple to his lips, took a fierce bite.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said.

"Mycroft," his brother countered, pocketing the half-eaten apple.

"I knew you would get past security," Mycroft snickered. Sherlock was strolling, all most swaggering, closer. "I thought you would busy yourself after you finished your case - ten minutes ago."

"I thought I would come and help my flatmate out with some shopping," Sherlock purred. He stepped to John's side, the smaller man quiet and baffled. "He has a tendency to choose the worst selection of meat."

"What?" John sputtered.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You've been giving us some trouble with those silly stories of yours, Mycroft," he stated. "While your flights of literary fancy and garbage mean nothing to me, it has become apparent you are wearing John's nerves thin."

John sighed. "Sherlock, I can - "

"Handle this?" Sherlock finished, grinned. "Piss poor job you've done of that so far."

Mycroft chuckled. "Really, boys," he said, "are you not taking this much too seriously?"

"You closed down and evacuated an entire grocery store just to ask John a question."

"I came to believe he liked the dramatics," the older Holmes pouted. "Nonetheless." His eyes, so dangerous but bright, met John's. "Is it true? Have my novels been... provoking you in any way?"

"I-I don't really care, Mycroft. But you see, that's just it," John said and emphasized, "_I don't really care_. I don't really want to know about or read your stories, because they do nothing for me and are, frankly, rather disturbing."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Really, this is the 21st century..."

"Also the amount of purple pose you abuse would only appeal to teenaged girls and housewives," Sherlock sniped, "which consist of 68% of your fanbase."

Mycroft's lips tightened. "Best to keep the girls from running about having sex, and housewives from cheating."

"How does that - "

"This does not concern you, John," Sherlock interjected, and John meant to correct him when the man turned to his brother and continued, "So I shan't ask you again: stay out of our business, remove us from yours. We want nothing to do with your seedy preteen romance fanfiction."

"What's a fanfiction?"

Mycroft laughed. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he exhaled and shook his head. He moved around the cart, strolled right up to his brother until they were face to face. "Is that a threat?" he whispered coolly. "Because you and I both know I'm much better at them."

"I could expose the truth behind the penname."

"You'd expose yourself."

"I don't care what people would think."

"Bet John would."

John could feel the heat rise between them, as if some unstoppable force had met an unmoving object, and they were determined to knock the other down. "Boys," he chided, rose his hands to them, "stop it. This is hardly the time or place."

"You ought to be grateful I paint your counterpart as more graceful and charming than you, Sherlock."

"I'd be touched, if I had the ability. And if it wasn't coming from a camp novel."

"Camp? My reviewers, critics, and fans say otherwise."

"Your fans are nimrods, and I have found you paid at least two of your critics to speak fondly of your nonsensical scribbles."

"Are you envious my novels have won over more attention than your silly, bland essay on deductions?"

"Of course not, why would I be jealous of mindless drivel?"

"You have no creative bone in your body, dear brother."

"And your writing skills are on par with Stephenie Meyer."

John winced. Oh, below the belt. And Mycroft had gone silent; though he was still smiling, Sherlock and even John knew the blow had struck him hard. The fury was mounting, and the atmosphere suddenly became thick and dark. Mycroft then chuckled and stepped back, tip of umbrella clicking against the tile. "Right. I have some business to attend to," he said and nodded to the both of them. "If you'll excuse me. Thank you for your time, John."

"No problem...?"

Mycroft was gone then, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the grocery store. John practically gasped for air. "Bloody Hell, I thought you both were going to go into supernova."

"Such exaggerations, just like him," Sherlock chided. He reached into the cart and took out a pack of popcorn. "Too much butter in this. Bad calories, as you know. Smells; gives me a headache." With that, he tossed the box out and headed to self check out.

* * *

A month later, an unusual length of time compared to usual, the next book in Mycroft's series had been published.

So had a photo of Sherlock, five years old, crying on a training toilet via the cellphone of everyone at Scotland Yard.

* * *

END

There's a couple references to other things not cited, but the opening of the first ficlet is from a Kate Beaton comic.

Lundi aka puffintalk on deviantART drew art to this fic, with me providing the written bit: **http : / / fav . me / d30hspo** It's totally awesome and ya'll should go comment on/fave it! You'll need to remove the spaces to access it. Boo, let me enable links.


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